Our new bedsheets kept me up until 4am last night. That's my first hypothesis, anyways. I know you're thinking the same thing my wife was thinking when I told her,
"This is why I'm all of a sudden having trouble sleeping."
She laughed, "the Bed sheets, really?"
I laughed too... at first. Then I really thought about it, though. These new bed sheets are a lot stiffer than our old ones. They're a lot louder when you move around. They lay over you differently, both because of the stiffness, and they're a higher thread count. I bet they breathe different because of the thread count, too.
These bed sheets are ruining my life.
They're the equivalent of switching from Swedish pancakes to buttermilk. It takes a while to chew on such a demotion.
OR, my 2nd hypothesis is this writing bug I've recently caught. 2 Fridays ago, I went to the book thanksgiving and I didn't have anything to share for the show and tell, so I read something from my blog. There was another guy there who had been a writer for a newspaper, and he was going to school to become a professional writer. He talked about short stories as if they mattered, the way sports fanatics talk about their teams.
All these people so excited about books and writing. Combine that with the fact that my business has slowed dramatically over the Winter. All these listless days looking for purpose and passion. I've always loved writing too, just have never known the difference between a semi-colon and a comma, not mention haven't quite been able to figure out what it is that I need to say.
The light bulb goes off slowly over the days following the Book Thanksgiving. At the party I had inherited Donal Miller's, "Through Painted Desserts." I remember from another book of his I had read a couple years back, "Blue Like Jazz", that his writing really resonated with me. All of a sudden, I've found my calling. I need to become a writer!
It was an evolving "all of a sudden". Pretty quick, but over a few days. Just really thinking about it, you know? Started playing around with actually trying to push my writing. Starting to research how to improve ones writing. When I really though strong and hard about it, felt like I was aligned with the stars of the universe. You know that feeling? Not just a sound decision, but once of those things that just makes you float up off of the ground a little?
I've been missing that feeling too. Getting those brain chemicals seriously kicking, you know? I don't know if it's coincidental accidents or divine appointment, but there's nothing like living like you have a purpose, you know?
I used to feel that way. The first time I traded God in. The only time I will ever have hopefully traded God in in my life. I was so obsessed with skateboarding growing up, it became my religion. It determined everything I did. Who I hung out with, where I hung out, what I went to college for and where I moved after high school, and moved again, and moved again, and started hanging out with this person and then that person and how much money I made and the type of lifestyle I was living. I wanted to work in the industry and know all the players and be accepted, you know?
I did it, too. My childhood dream. Since I was 11 years old. I worked at it and worked at it and worked at it. The funny thing about working hard at something is eventually it comes easily to ya, you know? That's why if this passion sticks around I know I'm going to become a semi-famous author. Which I'm thinking about changing that tag line goal name to something else. I've only shared it with my wife, said it a couple times. She didn't even say anything. It was supposed to be kind of a joke, people are supposed to say, "semi-famous author? Why do you want to only be semi-famous?" I don't know, I guess it's not really that funny. I wish I knew how to make people laugh better. There's nothing better than that in life.
So I worked so hard at skateboarding that before I knew it I had arrived. Paying my bills off the of the board, hanging with the guys in the magazine, going to the cool parties, getting paid to travel. Hell, I was just a filmer and manager, but people still wanted my autograph. I guess I was semi-famous a couple times back then; miniscully. It didn't last long, though. Me trying to leave God in the dust, like I just didn't care. It was all about ME. MY goal. MY dream.
Boy did God put me in check. Quick too. Before I knew it I was on my knees engulfed in darkness. That's a whole other story, though. I hardly slept last night, so I probably shouldn't even get into it now.
So anyways, this recent rejuvenation of purpose in my life, yeah, I admit there's been some extra passion pumping through my veins these last few days, so that could be the bed time culprit. Hopefully I don't over dose on passion, is that possible? Maybe it's a joint effort between my passion and the bed sheets keeping me up at night, all an elaborate plan to ween me off of sleep and make me go crazy. I'm not sure what their motive is, I'll think about it when I'm feeling less crazy.
I turned my light back on at 2:30am. I realized it had been 1 month since my best friend had died, and so since I couldn't sleep, I wrote.
I wrote about the day he died. All the ways I cried. I recounted my most fond memories, and I remembered most vividly all of the worst memories. All of the things you're not supposed to talk about. Or if you do talk about, you imagine their mother slapping you in the face. Those kinds of memories. The ones that don't feel appropriate to talk about, but you can't ever forget. They're ingrained in your mind, more powerful and vivid than the best Christmas you ever had.
It makes me think about how ethics would and should influence ones writing. They say the stories that elicit emotion are the most powerful. But is it right to write about such sensitive things? I think we all want what's real, though, right? Raw genuine truth. I feel like the more we're honest the more we can connect; we can start getting somewhere.
It's easy to be fearful, though. It's unfortunate that the worst moments are the ones that stick so powerfully in my mind. Fear is more powerful than hope. I hate that. I hope my hate of that fact can be more powerful than the truth of the principle. Wouldn't that be ironic? I hate that hate is more powerful than hope so much, that my hate of the fact renders it untrue. Wouldn't that be something.
No matter whose worst moments I share, someone is likely to be shamed, embarrassed, or pissed. Even sharing transparently about my own worst moments, I'm sure my wife doesn't want me gloating about my worst most embarrassing days. Or does she? Maybe I'm just making excuses. I've got to stop letting the fear win.
Maybe I need a new perspective. How about Jesus on the cross? The darkest thing, but utterly holy, right? Holy darkness. Darkness inspired by hope and life. I guess there just needs to be a means to an end. No one wants to sit in darkness for cruelty sake. No one healthy, When it comes to buying a book anyways. I guess that's why I need to work on my story development. Yes the story should have dips of darkness, trials and tribulations and such, but every story needs a resolution. Even the darkest ones. I guess i need to focus more on resolutions.
I need a resolution revolution. Or at least new bed sheets for now.
